The ticking hands of time. Narrative Poetry
Memories ripened like a glass of sweet, aged blackberry wine
I sometimes wonder what I would remember if I could actually roll back the moving hands of time?
Would I see events of old in a brand new light, or would I remember they were real? I owned them and they were memories of mine.
Memories ripened like a glass of sweet, aged blackberry wine.
Another year, another spring,
An abundance of tomorrows, what will they bring?
Will I be happy and content with enthusiastic cheer,
Or will I refuse and diligently insist on looking back to yesteryear?
That was embedded with feelings of regret,
Or will I look forward to an eventful tomorrow, refusing to hold on with bouts of sorrowful fret?
I surmise I will surprise myself and look ahead,
Expecting to see beautiful early morning glories caressed by the early morning dew.
Will my psyche allow me to see an abundance or a measly few?
Oh yes, all memories are stored and kept guarded in the keepsake box that lingers still,
But perhaps it's only a matter of time the memories fade and become invisible, nil.
Truthfully I'm looking forward to a new and exciting beginning,
Funny how a beautiful sunny day stirs my subconscious to new possibilities in life's second inning.
More by this Author
Even though I wasn't there, my eleven sisters and brothers told me stories of their time on an old farm and their good times. Their memories of olden times.
This is poetry about two young lovers who spent most of their time on the beach until the storms of life blew their love into the sea.
I was watching the sunset on a drab, gloomy day, missing my hummingbird's who had already flown South, and watching my squirrel, Squiggley store pecans for the winter when my muse took flight.